Those who we Remember most
by Fateweaver
Summary: [AfterEnding] A dark, dramatic fanfiction chronicling the end of the SEED taskforce and the destruction of those who served in it. Betrayal, sex, violence, forbidden love, tragedy, and more suspense than you can shake chocobo at. Serious,humor mix.
1. Act 1, Scene 1

Those who we remember most

A Final Fantasy VIII Fanfiction

By Fateweaver

Prologue

When The Western Wind Blows

The western wind brings a peculiar time of year; a time where comrades join arms in celebration in a glorious dance to remember fallen comrades. It is a wind which ushers in glorious fireworks displays who explode into bursts of juicy color upon a starry backdrop to the old and well-known anthem. Sound, dance, light; all fill the air's chilled wake, glorious and triumphant, brimming with sorrow.

The western wind's carnivorous, cold, snap stings wholly in the heated throats of those who train their minds at the Balamb Garden. It skewers their sticky saliva and drowns the heat in their breath, scrapes with malevolent accuracy across every wound received, and brutally blows against their bodies should they dare attempt a return trip home. Swordsmen feel the wind's presence on their swords, commanders feel their thoughts sweep away, and teachers are blown from their students—absentminded, all of them, with a forlorn wish and hope.

"_Come back to us_' their vacant minds weep, hollow and tormented, _'Come see us once more.'_ There is no lenience for them, no mercy or act of god to sate their steadfast resolve. Only the dead, cold, grasp of the Western Wind holds in their minds. Even after thousands of bloodied sunsets and cratered sunrises, their voices left unheard and their wishes unanswered. The rasp, whispered tone of the grieving victims of the murderous wind carries itself to the Graveyard, a haven of unspoken words, for the malicious spirit's evil deed.

The Wind's boney fingers reach through the hearts of the faithful as they stand over the four tombstones of their missing comrades and murders their gifts and flowers with iced,  
calloused precision, murdering all meaning for their presence. As the wind dances out of the Garden, the air becomes thick with the scent of roses, dandelions, tulips, and even rosemary. The verdant incense then fills the grieving hearts and minds of Balamb Garden, bringing them back to a time when flowers were not a remorseful occasion. As lovers and friends alike gather themselves from their grieving souls, the Wind brings to life its singular cohort in its evil deed. Remorse rises from the far reaches of their day-to-day minds, a living. breathing, thing who travels from home to home and heart to heart in its never-ending journey to ensnare the grief of all who have lost. It breathes its charred wind onto the dress of the SEED and soon is worn on every sleeve; the finest, purest black that never sheds or wears away. Their sleeves become black evil so pure that it wraps around their hearts, entrances their minds, and forms a mask on their faces, a glove around their fingers, and a silvery dagger in their calm voices.

With every breath, it draws nearer and nearer to their minds, presenting itself as both hope and doubt, and nearer and nearer to ascending from fiction to fact. With every joyous burst, it grows stronger and stronger, blacker and blacker; crushing, pressing, and smearing its dark thoughts onto their hearts. Every scrape shed, every tear felt, every absent mind and uneasy glance brings it back to life. So it is said that when the western wind blows, the joy of the past dies, hopes and dreams scatter on the wind, and every task becomes a momentous chore of titanic proportions.

They say that the day that those four tombstones were erect the wind began to blow. Whether true or not, the western wind blows for them—always for them—and with the wind comes the memories of those four heroes; lost and never found. The people of Balamb place replicas of their weapons on display--four glinting, majestic, and terrible instruments of destruction—to both remember who wielded them and to warn those who would walk their treacherous path. Those who are unlucky enough to walk under the arch of the four weapons feel a heavy burden on their hearts; children look up with innocence, tilting their head in confusion, and their parent's souls fill with that depressing sorrowful incense of crushed dreams and fresh flowers.

The worn eyes of those who remember, the sword of those who fought valiantly, the western wind which brings the scent of flowers, and the thick coat of sorrow painted onto the faces of many; these are for and why the western wind blows; for the tale, for the excitement; much like the wind's former owners.

There are those who know the Wind by experience, rather than myth and rumor. They were there when the four vanished on the wings of Ragnarok never to be seen again. These five people gather each year at the Graves and say little, satisfied meagerly in wishing collectively for their safe return. One leaves flowers, one leaves rosemary, one leaves a daffodil, the next leaves a white dandelion, and the last leaves a black cardinal; it is their tradition now. They look at each other, maybe tell a tale or two of the past, and then depart; all of them wondering: "Will they return on the wings of Ragnarok? Will we ever be able to see them again?"

They watch the sky that night, their sorrowed hearts hoping that the black reality in front of them will part with the glint of the Ragnarok's brilliant metallic sheen; that they'll be able to welcome their comrades with open arms and tears of relief; they hope against hope every year and feel the crush of defeat, all of them silently cursing, one of them louder and more passionate than the others.

Her hands buried in her leather gloves, she gnarls her teeth and coughs up tears, her red cheeks and veined eyes puffed and red. Her mind well-remembered that day she told him to stay and he brushed her hand off his shoulder. She remembered the cracking visage of Squall as he sauntered down the corridor to the Ragnarok. When she followed, he pushed her off the ship. With the ship's engines ringing in her ears, she never heard him say it, but she remembered his lips clearly still. 'I love you.' That is what he had said as she stretched her hand out, screaming her anger at his betrayal, cursing at his sense of duty and passion. That was his excuse for these years of sorrow. That was his commitment and his vow to her as he turned and walked away, his body swallowed by the dragon now as they flew on the wings of Ragnarok.

She was a different woman now, but she still felt the echoes of him in her heart. He had never said it before, not once in the ten years she had known him, but he told her that night as they—Squall, Quistis, Zell, and Irvinne—flew off into the sunset, never to return and fulfill the promises they had made. "We'll be back before you know it," Irvine had boasted when she protested their leave. "It'll be fine," Quistis had told her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Tch! We're not amateurs, y'know. Besides, I've got some dogs waiting for me when we get back," Zell had reminded her with a wink before jogging off to the ship. Nevertheless, they didn't come back, it wasn't fine any more, and the hot dogs had become raw and filthy in her mouth. They had lied to her, broken their promises, left her, and her love had betrayed her at the time she needed him most.

"You have to stay," he had commanded her, pressing his hand on her swollen belly, "you have to. For our kid, Rinoa, do it for him if you won't for me. This battlefield has no place for you. Stay. I will be back someday for it someday. Until then, stay strong." The words were bitter and hollow now and she still committed to them but his child—his child was never born. It had died in her womb that one evening, when the western wind blew for the first time. The wind came and took her child, her love, and her friends.

She hated the western wind with all the force and fibref her body and mind. She hated Squall, and Zell, and Quistis, and Irvinne, and all their promises, hopes, and dreams that now burned in her eyes and heart as innumerable flaming swords ever gnashing and slashing at her heartstrings.

She always felt the pull on her chest; when the pinpricks of sorrow attacked her, and the fits of rage and sadness burned into her this time of year. She glanced up through her melted mascara and eye shadow, stared at the reflection of the broken and battered girl in front of her. Placing her hand on her stomach and lowering her head and shame, she whispered in her hoarse voice, "I hate you, Squall. Why do you keep tormenting me? _Why?_ Did I do something terrible to you too?"

She stared at her reflection, touching her hand to the cold glass, and swallowed a sob with a bitter face, "It was me wasn't it, Squall? You wanted me to come after you—wanted me to keep playing our little game. And when I didn't come—you felt this sorrow too?"

The darkness didn't respond and she fell deeper into the pitch black mood she was in. Grabbing a nearby bottle, she eyed it warily and stated to the room, "You know I told you that one time: I hate alcohol." With that, she up-ended the bottle, nearly choking on the tears that were threatening to erupt again, and slammed its empty shell back onto the wooden bed stand next to her. Rolling over on her side, she looked out the window onto the brilliant sky glistening with stars as fireworks began to erupt, her eyes tearing as she smelled that cologne he had grown fond of before. Balling her fists, she whispered angrily, "I can still smell you, damn it—I can still smell you right here next to me. Why are you torturing me so?" Slamming her fist against the soft mattress, she swung her legs over the bed, charged out of the bedroom, crying, "damn you, Squall," and ran to the only place where she knew she would find company, compassion, and a caring hand at this hour.

The door slammed behind her, filling the small apartment with the dead air that always filled it in her absence. In the corner glinted the Lionheart, the sword of her beloved, gathering dust and cobwebs, never to guard Rinoa again, and in the air outside Balamb garden, the western wind howled its fury.

* * *

Dark clouds gathered on the horizon as the fireworks exploded and in the gunpowder glaze of the moonlight, the Ragnarok sailed through the clouds to Balamb garden. Gripping the helm tightly, Squall stared at the fireworks, his beard now thick and rugged. Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, Quistis, similarly unshaven, smiled nervously underneath her light-blonde gotee and scarred face, "She's waited for you, Squall, I know it."

With darkened eyes, Squall replied, "She hates me. If I know her as well as I did then, I know that she hates me for what I've done to her. My child—he's growing up right now. This will be the first time he's ever seen me—I've waited so long to see him. I wonder if she told him about me."

With a bit of gruff humor Irvine asked, "And how do you know it's a 'he'? Afraid you reared a girl, scarecrow?"

"Humph," Squall replied, releasing his grip from the helm and crossing them over his chest, "after what I've done to her, I doubt she would've had the strength to raise a daughter—that's how I know."

Irvine grimaced, returning his view to the console and piloting the Ragnarok in, "Sheesh—you have to be so grim all the time? Ever since Zell--" Irvine's mouth closed softly as he saw through the cockpit glass Squall's eyes darken considerably.

"We don't talk about Zell," Squall reminded Irvine with a scathing, hushed whisper. "There's a reason why I asked you to not speak of him in such a manner, and you have to go and run your mouth, Irvine," Squall's voice cracked as he growled and walked out of the cockpit, "Damn you, Irvine."

The doors slid open and close for Squall as he stormed down the corridor, his foul mood ripping through the ship like a hot knife through warmed butter.

"Quistis," Irvine asked with pain in his voice, "I'm sorry. Please, go help him—I don't know what to do with him any more. …No," he corrected himself, pushing the autopilot button and throttling the engines to hover-mode, "this is my responsibility. I've got to do this." He raised himself from the seat, tipping his ripped and torn hat at Quistis. As he walked to the door, he asked her, "Do you think someone can forgive himself?"

He paused at the open door as Quistis slowly placed both hands on the helm, staring at Balamb Garden and its fireworks, "That's a question that Squall has never answered."

Irvine stared at the fireworks for a moment and nodded. "Yeah—but you know him better than me. Will he be able to handle this? Balamb, I mean, and maybe even Rinoa. That is what we came here for but—I have my doubts about him."

"The only thing I can do is hope for the best sometimes," Quistis said softly, "sometimes that's the only thing we _can_ do." A dead silence filled the room as Irvine stood, unable to reply. His mouth quivered a little and his eyes darkened as he turned away, as if she had slapped him across the face, to face the opening door, muttering in a hushed and forced tone of voice, "Hey, keep those words to yourself, little lady. That's not fair."

"I know," she responded, her voice quivering a little, "but those are the only ones that came—the only ones."

Irvine opened his mouth to reply but recognized the tremble in her voice—the same tremble from before. With a sigh, he whispered, "Yeah—I know what you mean when you say it that way. I feel that way too, y'know—so does Squall." With that, he calmly went through the door, off to find Squall and apologize.

As the fireworks danced in front of her, Quistis sobbed quietly, in a low voice, "Yes—but he's the one who loved me."

* * *

"--I am deeply sorry to announce that SEED is unable to field your request," Cid muttered as he paced back and forth, dictating to the computer, "we do not have the manpower to carry out such an operation at this time. Please try again in a few months when we have more recruits. My apologies, Cid." With a gruff sigh, he stopped and sat down in his leather chair, reading the letter earnestly, but it was no use.

"Delete letter," he stated with frustration, watching as the letter vanished off the screen. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and reached for the small glass of wine he had poured for this occasion. Raising it high in the air, he spoke loudly, "To those who we remember most, I dedicate this toast, in recognition of their fifth anniversary—kampai." With that, he downed the wine and coughed violently as the burning toxin slid down his throat. With three pounds on his chest, he ignored the burning fluids and cleared his voice.

"Display weather report." A graph of barometric pressure, ambient temperature, humidity, wind speed, and other weather information appeared in his glasses and he grunted. "Looks like it's going to be just as cold tomorrow—must be that westerly wind from the north again."

Folding his fingers onto themselves, he placed his hands onto his belly and cleared his mind. "You've been gone for five years," he spoke aloud, "and I've failed in trying to find you every year. I don't know why I keep doing this fruitless endeavor but—display Ragnarok Position Tracking Satellite."

The information replaced itself with a map of the world, and as with every year there was the map and Balamb Garden—no sign of the Ragnarok. He stared at the map for thirty seconds, unblinking. "Why am I doing this," he muttered as he reached for the power button but stopped cold in his tracks as a yellow blip appeared next to Balamb Garden. Eyes widening, he sat forward in his chair, staring at the radar screen. "There's no way that after so long you'd just show up, right? You would call us. You'd tell us where you were before now, right?"

The dot lit up brightly again, about fifty kilometers from the Garden's current position. "Could it be, that after all these years—" he cut himself off, standing up from his chair and lowering his eyebrows as the blip resonated again, this one stronger than the ones before. "Begin engine start-up sequence and begin Garden wide broadcast profile--transmit to all speakers in the Garden. Also, load music profile 'Squall', play on all external speakers—maximum volume. Attention Balamb Garden, this is Headmaster Cid speaking, and I would like to warn you that the Garden might be moving within ten minutes. We may also have an inbound transport headed for the Hangar, please prep it for landing procedures immediately. Thank you."

* * *

"They're playing that song," Irvine muttered as he walked down the corridor to Squall's room, "the one they played when we left five years ago—do they remember?"

* * *

As she collapsed against Selphie, Rinoa faintly heard that song playing again. "Damn it, why tonight?" A concerned expression fell on Selphie's face as she reminded her, "We have to remember them, silly. For some," she added with a hint of sorrow, "that memory is music."

* * *

Alone in the cargo bay, Squall stared at the red, metallic floor angrily. He didn't want to go back to Balamb. After so long, so much must have already changed. He wasn't even sure he would recognize Rinoa or Selphie—Gods, Selphie. He remembered that she had a crush on Zell at one point—they had been discussing going to a movie or two before they had left all those years ago. If she knew what became of him, she wouldn't be the cheery girl he had been introduced to back when Ultimecia was still a threat.

His mind clouded with images, he subconsciously called out for one of his Guardians. The room instantly dropped ten degrees in temperature and a cold wind bit through Squall's clothes, sinking into his flesh viciously. As the wind died down, he felt a gentle, stone-cold hand softly place itself on his shoulder.

"You called me, Child, so I come," Shiva stated as she shimmered into being. "How can I be of service, Squall?" She eyed the sullen man as she always did, assessing his status. "You look troubled—and I do not feel any malevolence nearby. Is this of a personal nature?"

Squall nodded.

"What can I help you with then?"

"She hates me—Rinoa does."

Raising an eyebrow, Shiva replied, "Oh?"

"What else _can_ she do," he muttered angrily as he stood up from his seat, shouldering off the gentle hand of the Ice Goddess, "I've abandoned her for five years, made her rear my child, and I haven't even the guts to call her right now and end her pain. She has every right to hate me."

With a cautious voice, Shiva carefully stated, "She is her own person, my child, and she makes her own decisions. In doing so, she may have clung on to hope instead of the despair you assume."

"But can a man be forgiven for such things?"

Shiva smiled quietly, walking around to the front of Squall and embracing him softly, "There are worse things that a man could do—and none of these things you have done." Gently stroking his hair, she added, "I believe that she believes, deep down in her core, that you will return one day as I look forward to you calling me every hour—though in a different way, I assure you."

Something inside Squall snapped as he stood there, uncertain of what to do as Shiva embraced him in a warm, yet cold, motherly love. A tear fell from his eye as he lowered his head to Shiva's shoulder, returning the embrace. "I miss her, but this scares me," he whispered.

"I know, Squall, I could feel it when you called me," tightening her hug a little, she contemplated for a moment. "I know that I am bound in a strange way to our laws, but I would like to propose breaking one for you, Squall." Softly, she pushed Squall out of their embrace and placed a hand under his chin, smiling warmly.

With tears streaking down his cheeks, Squall stared and waited.

"It has been law for many years, almost as many years as there have been callings to us, and that law states that a Guardian may not ever take a human to our plane. This is so to ensure that one of our greatest secrets is never revealed—I am one of its keepers. Would you like to see my world, Squall?"

Confused and uncertain, Squall narrowed his brows. "You have a world?"

"Much as you have your own plane, we have ours," Shiva explained, "though I assure you ours is much less festive than yours."

"I'm not sure," Squall admitted, "I don't even know why I'm asking you for advice."

"It's not an unusual thing," Shiva admitted, "Those who call us Guardians do not always do so in times of survival. There are times we are called when, like now, our Children simply need our ear and kind demeanor, and other times Children call us in order for them to express their gratitude for us in a physical way. Once, when I responded to the cry of one my Children, I found a batch of fresh cookies waiting for me and my daughter asking me if I would attend her wedding," Shiva giggled lightly, "Of course, I had nothing to wear for the affair but I did attend. The cookies were excellent as well."

"So then what is your advice, Shiva," Squall asked as he wiped his tears with his sleeve.

With a kiss to his cheek, Shiva shimmered out of being and stated, "Tell her what you told me and all will be well in due time, my child. Call me tomorrow and I shall show you and her around my world—this will help ease her concerns."

As the last wisp of Shiva vanished, Squall heard her hum in his mind, "Thank you, Child, for calling me. You are my favorite Son."

"Favorite Son," he repeated, "You've never called me that before."

The far door of the cargo bay slid open to reveal Irvine. Scowling, Squall stated, "Let's get this ship moving. I want to see Rinoa and we have a whole Garden full of people to meet."

Taken aback for a moment, Irvine rubbed the back of his head. "Squall, are you okay?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I mean—you look blue in the face. You're shivering, even."

Blushing a bit, he stated, "Oh, it's nothing. I just opened the bay doors to get some fresh air. It's a cold night tonight and I lost myself watching the fireworks."

"Huh. Alright, whatever you say, Mr. Boss—let's go meet some old friends, and maybe even some new ones."

"Lead on, Kenneas," Squall stated as they left the cargo bay for the bridge.

"Look, about Zell, I'm sorry—it's just…" Irvine began as the cargo bay doors closed.

The Matron's eyes slowly opened, her demeanor calm and knowing. Looking out her bedroom's spacious window, she stated, "So the children have returned—wonderful. I shall prepare for them immediately, and inform my beloved." Summoning her clothes from her dresser, she dressed herself in seconds and walked from their bedroom to his office. As the door opened to reveal Cid hurriedly placing several calls and numbers to several people, the Matron stated, "My love, they are here—they are coming. I can feel their presence again in this world."

Staring up from a pile of reports, Cid nodded. "I know. We are ready for them, but I've got a ton of reports and such to file to get them listed as 'alive' and so on and so forth. You'd think that four reversals of a declaration of death would be an easy task."

Her eyes narrowed softly as a sour expression fell on her lips, "My love—you'll only need three reversals: one for each Quistis, Irvine, and Squall."

Cid folded his hands together and lowered his head. "I see."

"I am sorry," she stated in as comforting a tone as her matronly conditioning allowed, "this came as a surprise to me as well."

Pushing aside one of the documents, Cid asked, "Is there anything else I need to know?"

She pondered for a moment and turned to the door. "I will go greet them myself. Wake Rinoa—she needs to see this." With that, she left the office.

"But is that really a wise idea," Cid pondered as he called Rinoa's apartment, "after five years without him, this one has to wonder."

Quistis gathered herself finally, sitting back in one of the chairs on the Ragnarok's bridge, and was watching the fireworks contemplatively. "I wonder if they will even recognize me and Selphie—what am I going to tell her. What do you say to someone who has been waiting five years for their beloved to return home, whose hope will be crushed by what you say—how do you tell your best friend that her beloved wont be coming home. How do you say, "'Zell isn't coming home, Selphie; ever.'"

A/N: I will try to be regular with updating this fan fiction but I admit freely that I am a bit of a scatterbrain. If you think I am taking too long to update, please feel free to e-mail me and ask for the next chapter's status. Thank you for reading, reader, and I kindly remind you of the review button at the top and bottom of this page. I would love to hear what you think of this prologue or story. Please use it if you feel the urge to respond, or e-mail me if you really want to let loose! Until our next chapter—Fateweaver.


	2. Act 1, Scene 2

Those who we remember most

A Final Fantasy VIII Fanfiction

By Fateweaver

Chapter One

"Hail, the Conquering Heroes," a Bittersweet reunion

It wasn't an often occasion, Edea stalking the student dormitories of Balamb Garden. The last time she had been through was to talk some sense into Seifer and all of Balamb knew how well that went. In the end, she had left in a calm fury and did not return from her chambers for several hours—when she did, she refused to say anything of the event except for 'he's a disturbed child, misunderstood perhaps, but disturbed deeply'.

Today was a different affair however. When she had boldly stepped into Seifer's room with authority and confidence, she had been in her own element. But this—telling one of her children that their beloved had returned after so much pain had already passed, was something else entirely.

In her black dress gown, Edea stood in front of the door to Rinoa's apartment, her hand frozen just a few inches from the door. Her heart fluttered for a moment and she nearly turned on her heels, but she had taught herself better than that—expected more of herself than that. Reluctantly, she rapped her knuckles on the door and folded her hands in front of her.

A few moments passed to no reply and she frowned slightly. "Child," she spoke as she knocked on the door again, "Rinoa—where are you? Answer me, dearest, I'm not here on business." Still, despite her manners and motherly concern, no reply came. Concerned now, with the rumors of Rinoa's heavy drinking burdening her judgment, the Lady of Balamb calmly breathed in and out, exhaling her nervousness. She knew her children, Rinoa was not apt to throw herself to the dogs without a fight—but without Squall, she had become weaker in mind and spirit. Without a moment's hesitation, her hand waved over the door's lock as she forced a magical spell into it's circuitry.

_There is no turning back; either I go in or risk her demise and smell my defeat on the westerly winds tomorrow._ Voice calm and stern, she apologized as she opened the door, "Excuse my intrusion, Rinoa, I'm coming in." As the door slid open, she swooned slightly as a wave of intoxicating fumes blasted into her nostrils. Sputtering, she gripped the doorframe as she coughed out the vile smell of alcohol; rum, if memory served her. Eyes teared, she banished the repugnant stench to the corners of the room with a hand gesture and strode into the dark apartment, still covering her mouth. The booming fireworks outside combined with the music playing on the speakers outside vibrated the floor and shook the windows gently, muffled by the metal and ceramic walls. Her eyes scanned the room again, this time in more detail than the last, but found no trace of Rinoa.

"Rinoa," she called out as she moved into the bedroom, "are you here?" The covers of the queen-sized bed were rumpled and a bottle of wine glistened on the nightstand, next to it a framed picture she couldn't make out the contents of in the dark. Squall's sword glinted lightly next to the cut-out in the wall that served as a doorway between the main room and the bedroom, dusty and the home of more than one house-spider.

Calmly, she strode over to the picture and summoned an orb of light in her right hand. With her left, she gently plucked it from the nightstand and frowned in concern. It was a portrait taken in the Hangar when Squall had just returned from the clean-up mission in Juunhou—the last mission before they had disappeared with the Ragnarok—and showed an ecstatic and worried Rinoa grasping a dusty, bruised, and cut Squall tightly against her chest. As always, he lightly returned the embrace, still as unsure of his actions as always. Freeing the orb to drift lazily about the room, she ran her finger across the pane and felt the grit of dust thick on her fingers. "Five years is a long time to wait," she remarked as she placed the portrait down on the nightstand, "even for lovers such as they."

Turning towards the entrance, she strode over to the bathroom and knocked lightly. "My dear, do not be afraid; I am not here to scold you, but I am worried about you," she remarked as she rolled the bathroom door aside with her magic. Again, no Rinoa, just another empty space; another hollow shell inhabited by a hollow person. "You must feel lonely, Rinoa," she remarked as she closed the door, "lonely, and perhaps a bit afraid. I hope you will forgive me." With that, she closed her eyes, sought her out, and found her. Making sure to close and lock the door, Edea vanished into thin air and appeared in the thick of a heated argument.

Eyes open wide in surprise, she had only a moment to duck Rinoa's last bottle of wine before it smashed against the wall spectacularly. Dodging the shards of the exploding bottle behind her she said, "I am sorry to intrude Rinoa--"

"Get out," Rinoa yelled back, pointing a quivering finger at the Matron, her eyes and nose bled with mucous, "get out!!"

"But Rinoa—!"

"I've heard enough from you," she slurred heavily, "from _you_," she pointed at Selphie, who was against the wall trying her best not to explode in anxiety, "and from whoever the hell _else_ is going to tell me 'it's all right'. Well it's _not_ alright, _alright_?! He's _gone_ damn it all, and I _know_ he's not coming back! He's never coming home and I don't need your damned sympathy!!"

"Rinoa," Edea began again, stepping down from the bed she had happened to teleport onto, "you must hear me out, child."

Lips quivering and hands white to the knuckle, she belted, "And I am _not_ your _fucking_ child!!"

Selphie's eyes squinted shut as she turned her head away, wanting it all to end now before someone got hurt. The Matron stood silent, dead in her tracks, as her eyes stared deep into Rinoa's wild eyes. "Child," she stated in a low, harsh voice, "this is not the time."

"Fuck you, you cold-hearted, orphanage-running bastard! I'm not taking your orders! I'm not going to take anyone's orders! I'm quitting SEED as of now, this night! I don't care _who_ you think you are but I got something to say, damnit, and I'm going to say it to the _whole fucking Garden_ before I'm done. And not you, or Selphie, or even the Headmaster is going to stop me! You hear me, you _bitch_?! They're _dead_, alright? _Dead!_ Dead like my—my _child_, dead!"

With a cool, controlled gesture, the Matron's hand flew forward, her eyes cool and distant. "Hush, child!" Rinoa's mouth opened and she tried to scream but no sound came out. Gripping her throat, she stared, shocked at the Matron, her face slowly turning red as her eyes narrowed furiously.

"Any more violence out of you and I will be _forced_ to restrain you," Edea whispered commandingly, "and neither I nor you want me to do that. Now you will hear me out or I will escort you to your quarters and tell you tomorrow, and I am _not_ a bitch."

Stomping forward, Rinoa screamed silent obscenities, her finger firmly pointed squarely at Edea's chest, her eyes burning and her breath heated.

"And he is _not_ dead," she stated, "he's landing right now, in the Hangar, with the others."

Stopped dead in her tracks, Rinoa's expression faltered, her mouth hanging open and a tear in her eye. Years of doubt and regret, the walls she had built around her to keep the loneliness from seeping in, her hurtful admission that Squall would never return, it all fell to pieces. The world seemed to fall apart for a moment and become something from another world she had never foreseen. Mouth quivering, unable to do anything else, she stared, both frightened and hopeful.

"We found them less than five minutes ago, they appeared on the horizon without warning—we don't know why they hadn't called in before but the Ragnarok is damaged horrendously and they're already assembling a docking crew," extending her hand, she produced a checklist from her dress sleeve and stated, "I told them that you would like to be there to assess the damages—they agreed and are waiting your arrival, Squall included."

Eyes on the clipboard, Rinoa stepped forward and took it with a quivering arm, her eyes nervous and cautious. "This is no trick," Edea stated as she let her arm fall, "and I would advise you to hurry if you want to get him before the on-site medical technicians do. Hurry now, and remember that even if you _do_ hate me so, child, I shall always love you, all of you." And with that, she vanished, restoring Rinoa's voice in passing.

Staring at the clipboard, Rinoa shook slightly, tears flooding her vision and burning her eyes.

"Rinoa?"

Charging out of the room without a word, she flew to the Hangar where in just a few minutes, the Ragnarok would finally have arrived after five long years of waiting.

Quistis rapped her fingers against the console as the Ragnarok began to land. Glancing over at a refreshingly happy Squall, and an equally relieved Irvine, she felt a bit out of place. Then again, they weren't the ones who would tell Selphie. Sitting back in her chair, she let her head fall to the right so she could make eye contact with Squall.

"Squall," she began as she folded her arms, "when we land, I want to be the first off the ship."

"Huh? Why?"

"It's Selphie," the voice wavered the tiniest bit and it took her a mighty bit of effort to keep it from throwing off her otherwise cool demeanor, "she needs to know."

With a solemn nod, he returned to watching over the inbound procedures.

Quistis returned to her own mind, trying to think of the easiest way to break such terrible news. Of the ones that came to mind, she found herself guessing that there wouldn't be any method any easier than simply asking Selphie to her room for the night and telling her there. Besides, she added with a bit of selfish guilt, it had been a very long time since they had been able to see each other.

Her thoughts roiled over to Squall, whose cool and determined demeanor had been squashed in their years in the Outlands. In that tropical desert, struggling to survive, they had changed a lot. Irvine, though somehow still able to keep a grip on his cowboyish mask, had darkened considerably. Where before he had been a charismatic, exuberant, sometimes too pushy, 'cowboy', he reminded her of a wounded falcon: still as charismatic and just as exuberant but never able to recover its pride, no matter how steeled his eyes were. She could feel the regret in him.

Where Irvine had become a hollow, dark version of his former self, Squall had blossomed into something else entirely. Repentant, determined, and focused would be what she would call him. His teenager attitude had dissipated and she could feel him aged considerably at heart. Though she agreed with the fact that he needed to grow up a little, she could feel in him the burdens of sin and regret and see in his eyes that sage-like, removed wisdom that came with old age. Squall was not who he used to be at all; the only thing that had stayed the same was his determination, maybe even stubborn pride.

Quistis herself had felt the wear of the sands on herself as well. She once had told them of the great parties they would hold when they returned to Balamb and looked forward to the students who she had left behind. Now, she felt emptiness in the pit of her stomach, a cold and heard iron ball that seemed to yearn for some kind of love other than her own. In the desert sands, she had approached Squall frankly about her former obsession with him and, though shocked, he had taken it in stride; deciding that it changed nothing and only helped him understand some of the things she had done for him. This, however, continued to eat at her heart, the fact that he could never be hers. She persisted that she would eventually lose her feelings for Squall and perhaps become enamored by another young boy ripe and fresh with attitude and spunk but so far this had never changed. The more she tried to distance herself from him, the closer they seemed to bond.

A stern but gentle hand lay on her shoulder all of a sudden and she looked up to see Squall smiling. Forcing one back, she asked, "We're down already?"

"I was hoping that my former ass-whipper would help me down the stairs," he said with a wry smirk and a wince in one eye, "it's bothering me again today."

"You get that checked, Squall," Quistis said, adjusting her glasses with a frown, "it could be serious."

"No," he stated firmly and removed his hand from her shoulder, "I'm fine."

Quistis frowned. _Stubborn as always, I see, Squall._

Getting up from her seat, she brushed away the bangs covering her eyes and sighed. "Well, it's better than walking down with the womanizer."

Irvine stood up in mock outrage, "I am _not_ a womanizer," he said, winking as he said so, "_some_ girls just don't see my charm out right. You'll learn though."

Sighing with a bit of a giggle, Quistis placed her hand on her hip and said, "No way. Squall is my kind of man, you know. Maybe you should be more like him?"

Groaning, Squall covered his face with his gloved hands.

"What, like Mr. Gloom and Doom? Tch. Not in my life!"

"Hey!"

"What? I call 'em like I see 'em."

With a roll of his eyes, Squall began to walk to the bridge, "Well, if anyone wants _off_ this boat, the ramp is this way."

Grasping the clipboard, emotions and thoughts boiled in Rinoa's mind. She wasn't sure what she was doing there. She hated him for having been gone so long, for causing the death of her child, for leaving her when she needed him the most, but she couldn't get over her love. As the bay doors began to slide open, she tried to figure it out, what she felt, but it all was a mess.

Glancing down at the checklist, she bit her lip. She wanted to toss the clipboard to the side, run to the ship, and hug him, and maybe slap him, but she didn't want to be onboard the ship if he was hurt. Gritting her teeth, she growled in her mind that maybe he did need to be hurt. After all, he had killed her child, left her here to rot for five years, and didn't so much as call to say they were all right, but stranded.

But from the looks of the battered and blackened hull, by the looks of it some form of energy weaponry, and the patchwork repairs on the hull, they probably had their communications system knocked out. But Irvine knew how to use that kind of stuff, why didn't he fix it?

Feeling her anger rise and boil deep in herself, she reminded herself that there were students nearby. She was a role-model, one of the many icons of what a SEED could become. Failing them now would be far more disappointing than being unable to slap Squall straight off the ship. Besides, she had all night to work on him.

She wanted desperately to forgive him as she thought these cruel thoughts, but nothing but frustrated anger would come out. Balling her hands into fists, she growled at her inner turmoil, wanting to know his reason now so that she would be able to stop it herself.

Slowly, she strode forward as the landing gear cushioned the weight of the ship and its engines began to shut down. A few moments later, she was next to the airlock, tapping her foot impatiently. The feelings of anger and betrayal and hope and regret swarmed her, rolled around in her head, and slowly frustration took hold of her.

As the door slid open and she raised back her palm, her anger faded and her eyes widened. Squall, head straight and scarred in numerous places, had grown a beard in his absence and was currently clutching his side, wincing slightly in pain. As he saw her, she saw a spark of nervousness in his eyes and noticed Quistis urging him forward. Biting his lip, he took two bold steps up to her and looked her in the eyes.

She felt it surge again, the anger and the betrayal as her tears welled up in fear. She knew it was impossible to stop now, she felt part of herself screaming against doing it, but her palm swished out, slapped him across the face with a thunderous clap, and she broke into tears as he kept his head there, deciding just to lower it.

He had no explanation, no excuse. He knew what he had done to her somehow, even before she had even started to explain the horrors she had had to endure. His broken face, crushed eyes, ripped into her and clawed out her heart. Her hand shook as she stood there in tears, unable to do anything but feel an overwhelming sadness and regret wash over her, as all in the bay watched in horror and fear. She wanted him to say something arrogant, something stupid that would give her some sort of way to justify what she had done, but he had nothing to say. Her heart collapsed inwards on itself as she stood there, sniffing up the mucous that threatened to spill all over her. She wanted to curse at him, scream at him, beat him up for being so foolish, but without any movement at all, she felt in him that he would offer no resistance. He was broken already before she had even gotten there, wanted her to hurt him before she had even gotten the urge. In his downcast eyes she saw sadness, regret, and repentance, and a feeling of unworthiness so deep she could feel it scrape against the innermost chamber of her mind.

Slowly, she took a timid step forward, unsure of herself. Her knees buckled as she tried to keep herself upright and her teeth crushed each other as she fell into his arms, apologizing while bawling uncontrollably. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her, nestling his cheek against her shoulder. He said nothing as they stood there, entwined and both hurt and betrayed by their emotions. Said nothing as she lightly beat on him, trying to be mad, trying her best to express everything she hated about him. She had prepared a speech for him, a long list of things that he could never make up for, and he listened to her as she tried to bawl it out. She wanted him to say something, anything, that would let her be able to release all this hatred she had kept bottled inside, but he had nothing but regret and love, and so they continued to stand there until her tears ran dry and her body shook with her light sobs. Lightly, he brushed her hair away, stared into her hollow eyes and said, as plainly as he could manage, "If you want me to go and never return, just say it. If you feel I deserve it—say it."

Her mouth opened and she tried to say it but it wouldn't come out. She wanted to tell him that he deserved less pity for what he had done, that he should burn in hell, but it wouldn't come. He had placed his very heart and soul in her hands, giving it to her without conditions or rules or lies. She felt naked and uncertain, unable to choose between the two. With such honest love, she had nothing left that could spark any hate in her at all. Punching him lightly in the gut, she pointed a finger at him and said, dead-serious, "Don't you –ever- do that to me again, Squall. Ever."

"I won't," he promised as she collapsed into his chest. Sobbing a bit ever so often, she held on to him as the people in the bay slowly began to work on their respective jobs once more. She felt a bit sad that she had failed in restraining herself in front of the cadets, but the unbridled feeling of love and relief bursting out of her more than eased her concerns of it. After a few minutes, he entwined his fingers in hers and, cupping her chin, he asked her if they could go back home.

Nodding, she led him out of the Hangar despite Quistis' protests, through the central corridor, and straight back to her apartment, dodging all of the gasping students inbetween who hadn't heard of the return of the missing SEED. As she unlocked the door she remembered the wine she had been drinking earlier and blushed slightly. "Squall," she stated hoarsely, her throat dry and parched from all the sobbing earlier, "we need to talk about something. About a lot of something."

As she opened the door and he went to the bedroom to disrobe, he blinked and looked around. "Rinoa," he asked with a quivering voice, "where's the kid?"

Gulping down her fear, she closed the door behind them and locked it, deciding to start recounting her history since the day he had left.


	3. Act 1, Scene 3

Those who we remember most

A Final Fantasy VIII Fanfiction

By Fateweaver

Chapter 3

"…Ashes, Ashes, we all Fall Down."

Quistis' hair bobbed in the wind as she leaned over the Garden's top floor's rail, staring at the sunset over the ocean nearby. She had shaved off the excess hair she had acquired in the desert and aside from changing the bandage on her leg in the hospital, she had been discharged without so much as painkillers.

A warm, leather glove on her shoulder signaled Edea's arrival on the rooftop. Without a word, she walked past Quistis and stared at the sunset as well with a smile. Turning her attention back to the sunset, Quistis said, "Why are you here, Edea?"

"It is a beautiful morning," Edea replied, "and I have always watched the sun rise on the top of this Garden since I came to live here."

A moment passed between them as the sun continued to rise, an uncertain, yet knowing moment. Quistis noticed it immediately and turned to Edea, whose face had drooped and was now somber.

"You came to ask me about Zell, didn't you?"

Edea closed her eyes and shook her head, "I already know what happened. I wanted to see if _you_ were all right, child."

Blushing a bit, Quistis turned back to stare at the horizon and stammered, "I-I'm just fine, Edea. I don't know why you would be worried about me; we returned home after all, didn't we?"

Delicately, Edea placed her arms on the cold rails and stared into the sunset, her eyes distant and fixed on a spot somewhere beyond her sight, "He loved you, Quistis."

Turning to the door, Quistis began walking, her calm face breaking apart.

"Before you go," Edea quickly said, "tell me, can you survive?"

Her hand landed on the door's latch and she stopped. "Zell was a great man and I would hope that you would be more worried with Squall and Irvine." The door opened, shut, and Quistis was gone.

"It is alright to love someone, even if they are someone else's, and it is similarly fine to be loved beyond the grave." Edea said to nobody in particular as she stared at the sunrise. "Hyne be with you, Quistis." With that, her body shimmered and vanished, materializing somewhere else in the Garden where none would fine her unless she wanted them to.

* * *

Blood sprayed over Irvine's clothes as he downed another Behemoth, his bullet landing soundly through the beast's eye and out his skull. Teetering for a moment, the beast stood defiantly and then collapsed into a bloody heap of guts and blood, shaking the ground slightly.

Ejecting the brass casings of the rounds in his rifle, he reloaded and began walking forward again. No matter how many fights he got into with the beasts of the training area, he couldn't clear his mind. Any second now, he expected Zell to come bursting in through the door, punching the air and running on the balls of his feet with that happy-go-lucky expression of his, asking him if he wanted to practice together.

A rustle in the bush drew his gun and he fired two shots without a thought. Flipping open his hunting rifle again, he walked over to the brush to observe his kill. Shivering, holding his profusely bleeding arm, a child lay with gritted teeth and tearing eyes.

"Shit," Irvine hissed through his clenched teeth as he holstered his rifle and picked the kid up of the ground, "hold on, I'm gonna get you to the hospital."

His boots clapped against the hard-packed soil of the Training Grounds, his legs carrying him as fast as they could go, his mind filled with horror and venomous self-hate. The kid looked bad too, both shots had hit dead-pan in the arm, near the major arteries. A sword rattled against his belt, undrawn and apparently brand new.

Irvine swore to himself as he shouted people out of his way as he charged out of the training grounds at a full-sprint that he wouldn't pick up a gun again until he could be sure this wouldn't have a 'next time'.

Noticing a sudden shift in weight in his arms as he ran up to the medical bay, Irvine looked down and, to his horror, the child's head hung limp against his arms and he was barely breathing. "Hold on, kid! Don't die on me," he yelled as he shouldered the door open, breaking the latch and lock in the process.

"I've got a gunshot kid here," he yelled to the dark medical bay, completely empty of any medical personnel. Cursing at his bad luck, he placed the kid on the nearby bench and ransacked the nearby cabinets for something, anything, to treat the wound. Managing a roll of gauze, Irvine scrambled over to the kid, whose face was becoming paler by the second and quickly wrapped gauze over the wound. Cutting the gauze with his teeth, he grabbed some tape off the desk and sealed the bandage, hoping it would be good enough to stop the bleeding shortly until someone showed up.

Glancing at the kid's face, which was nearly chalk-white now, he knew he didn't have that much time to waste. Rummaging through his coat, he fished out his personal radio and snapped it open. Fumbling the number for Dr. Kadowaki onto the screen and pressing the 'SEND' button. Gritting his teeth, he said as calmly as he could, "Get to the infirmary ASAP, Dr. I have a gunshot victim here, and he's about to bleed to death."

* * *

Rinoa stirred lightly as she heard the sound of things being moved. Her eyes opened to find Squall sitting at the other end of the bed, holding the Lionheart in both hands, staring at it with an unreadable expression.

Bare-chested and wearing only his leather pants, Squall gripped the sword handle and walked to the door without so much as kissing her on the forehead. She thought about stopping him for a moment, but after what she had told him last night, she decided it might be best for him to have some time alone.

The door opened for him and closed shut behind him and she was alone again. Her thoughts drifted to the events of the last night as he lay in bed, staring at the door to the room.

He had just sat on the bed, staring at the floor with his hands on his knees as she had told him about his child's death, her alcoholism, and all the changes to the Garden made since he had left. She also reluctantly told him about her demotion to Groundskeeper because of her inability to fight and high maintenance, though she never kept the grounds. They had demoted her to that job simply so that she might one day be able to rise to the ranks of her former status.

She had made dinner for him, hamburgers, after that but he just didn't seem in the mood to talk then. All the happiness that she had been able to see in his heart when he had first seen her had vanished, replaced by something far darker.

They had gone to bed together, but everything seemed so hollow and empty, even there. Finally, they had gone to sleep without another word spoken, except for Squall apologizing earnestly for having been gone so long.

Grabbing her clothes, she dressed and decided to go out looking for him, hoping to cheer him up somehow.

* * *

Ignoring the stares of others had been something he had always been good at, and no better a time did he need it than now. Barefoot, wearing only his leather pants, he calmly stalked down the main corridor to the training grounds, his sword slung over his shoulder. Students stopped and stared and he faintly made a note to himself to shave when he returned.

As he reached the entrance, he found a group of students huddled about the door, talking excitedly among each other. He walked up to the group, unnoticed, and coughed to get their attention.

The kids, no more than fifteen years old, all looked up in anger, and then fear.

"What's going on," he demanded calmly as the student's looked among each other with worried expressions.

The youngest replied, "We saw some guy in a trench coat run by, he was carrying one of our friends. Had a gun. In any case, we can't find him now, and Biggs here keeps saying that he was bleeding or something."

"Yeah," Biggs replied exuberantly, "bleeding from the arm!"

"Whatever," the youngest butted in, "but we can't find him now. The guy ran off in the direction of the infirmary, but that place isn't open this time of the morning."

"Irvine," Squall stated as recognition kicked in. Without a word, he charged off to the infirmary, leaving the kids behind in his dust.

Finding the door broken in and the lights on, Squall skidded to a stop and walked in the door, expecting the worse. Immediately, Dr. Kadowaki shoved him out of the way as he ran in from the corridor Squall had come down. "Get out of the way, I've got a gunshot victim bleeding to death in here!" Scrambling into the operating room, Kadowaki shouted, "Sit on the bench and I'll get to you as soon as I can!"

"What's going on here," Squall demanded as he strode into the operating room to find Irvine with his hat off, between his legs, his expression blank and cool, and a kid on the operating table with heavy bleeding on his right arm.

Grabbing Irvine from his chair, Kadowaki yelled, "Get out, the both of you! I can't have your germs flitting about with this kind of blood loss!"

Irvine stood up from the chair and walked to the door, not daring make eye contact with Squall. Grabbing his arm as he walked by, Squall demanded an explanation. "Some kids told me that you shot this kid, is that true?"

Ripping his arm from Squall's grip with a shove, he walked to the infirmary's door and hissed, "Leave me alone. I know what I did. I'm going out and it might be a while till I'm back. Tell the others."

With that, Irvine walked down the corridor. Before Squall could pursue him, Kadowaki's head poked out of the operating room and demanded, "Get me some gauze, Squall!"

Grunting, Squall let Irvine go. He would deal with him, and whatever just happened, at a more appropriate time in the future.

Pulling on a sweater, Rinoa walked through the door with a quizzical expression. "What's going on, Squall?"

Deciding to remain silent, he turned and returned to his original intent of training as Rinoa gasped and ran over to Dr. Kadowaki.

'Damnit Irvine,' Squall thought as he padded across the cool floor, 'why? What the hell is going on with you. If that kid dies…'

"Squall," someone nearby chuckled. Turning with fire in his eyes, Squall was tempting for a moment to unshoulder his blade and plant it firmly in between Seifer's frosty eyes. With a smirk he pointed at Squall's gunblade and stated, "One more incident like that and I'm going to kick you all out of here—you're lucky I'm not the head of the disciplinary committee anymore."

The fire cooled in Squall's eyes as he stared at Seifer. He wasn't who he used to be either, just a hollow and scared copy of the original. Ever since Ultimecia, Seifer had retreated back to his former 'I'm a total badass' personality and had considered three times leaving Balamb Garden. According to Cid, since they'd been gone, he had grown increasingly manic and depressed; and obsessed with getting 'revenge' on Squall for 'setting him up to be who he's not'. "Get out of my face," Squall hissed as he turned his back to Seifer, "you're lucky that I'm not willing to kick your ass just yet."

Seifer's hand lowered to his gunblade as he snorted, "And what would that take, I wonder. Money? Slicing Irvinne's hand off? Your girlfriend's virginity?" His fingers twitched as Squall turned and shrugged the blade off his shoulder.

"Come on, Mr. Badass," Seifer yelled, "what have _you_ got that I don't have?"

Raising the gunblade from his side, Squall pointed the tip squarely between Seifer's eyes. "Don't test me, you conniving worm; I've had enough of you."

"Worm," Seifer chuckled as he scratched the back of his head with the dulled edge of his gunblade, "and what of you, hero? Am I supposed to be kissing your feet right now, calling you My Lord and giving you a sponge bath in an hour?"

Restraining his blade from soaring into his rival's chest, Squall snorted. "You wouldn't know what a hero is if he smacked you between the eyes."

"You know what I see? I see a band of idiots out of control, thinking they can run the whole chicken coop. Well, chicken-wuss, you're all wrong. This hen house has got one last rooster and I'm not going to let you go about sticking out your chest and rattling your swords without a fight."

"You've got nothing on us," Squall muttered, "nothing, you foolish man."

Seifer waved a finger with a smirk, "Not yet, but trust me. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's _discipline_. Another incident like this Squall and I'm going to show this whole butt-kissing, hero-worshipping Garden that you're all too human."

"And you're not," Squall chuckled as he walked away and shouldered his blade.

Seifer let his blade arm rest as he placed a hand on his cocked hip and called out, "Squall, you chickenwuss, what's happened to the lot of you, huh? You're all turning into spoiled brats! Don't let your head get away from you, or—maybe you should." Breaking out into laughter on his witty joke, Seifer turned and disappeared.

"I'm going to humiliate him again one day," Squall vowed, "just to shut his 'chickenwuss'ing ass up once and for all. Rivals or no, he's taking this too far."

* * *

"So Squall's been down there for three days now?"

"It's not like I can convince him to come back without fisticuffs," Rinoa sighed. Squall was pissed off, really pissed off. "After what Seifer did, I wouldn't be surprised if those two start beating each other up again."

"Maybe he _needs_ a good beating," Selphie giggled, shadowboxing an invisible Seifer, "that man has an ego the size of this Garden. It needs a good beating ever so often."

"Still, I don't get it. Why did Squall get so pissed?"

"Hyne if I know," Selphie shrugged.

The door to the apartment shuddered a bit as someone knocked loudly. "Hellooo," Quistis called out, "you in there Selphie?"

"Hey, yeah!" With a giggle, Selphie jumped to the door and opened it for Quistis. "Hi Quistie!"

"Hey Selphie," Quistis said with a nervous giggle, noticing Rinoa inside, "I'm—I'm not bothering anything am I?"

"Of course not, Quistis." Rinoa laid back on the small yellow couch and said, "We're just letting loose. The boys are all in a rough and tumble mood today."

Quistis smoothed her hair and closed the door and with a curt smile stated, "Um—Selphie. About Zell—"

Her eyes brightened as a smile spread off her face, "Where _is_ that goof? Wasn't he onboard your ship?" Her face fell into a frown before Quistis could answer. "Or did he go out to eat hot dogs before he came to visit?"

Rinoa tilted her head in confusion as she saw a horrible look fall on Quistis' already pale and nervous expression. Her heart paused as Quistis opened Selphie's hand and placed a velvety box in her hand, looked straight in her eyes, and said, "we need to talk, hon'."

Staring down at the box in confusion, she shook her head, "What's this about?"

"It's—about Zell, Selphie. He was going to give this to you—"

With a nervous sigh Selphie shook her head and giggled, "That Zell. Why didn't he just give it to me in person? Is he afraid I still have _cooties_ or something?"

Grimacing, Quistis turned and closed the door. Turning back, she placed her hands on Selphie's shoulders and stared her in the eyes, as painful as it was to do so.

"Quistis," Selphie began to worm away as she felt something sharp in her as Quistis stared, "what—what's happened to Zell?"

"He's, well—you see, when we left for our mission he—well…"

"He's…dead?" The word was like a shot to the heart; though Rinoa hadn't meant it that way. She could tell what this visit was about the moment Quistis had placed the box in her hands. This wasn't the first time Quistis had done this.

Selphie spun about, a wild look in her eyes. "Wha—what do you mean, "He's dead." But—he can't be! This is a trick, isn't it?" She cocked her hips and pouted, "That's mean, Rinoa. I've been waiting patiently for him to come back. I know he's fine just like I knew that Quistis and the others would make it back here."

"Selphie," Quistis muttered. With as gentle a hand as she could, she turned Selphie back and hugged her as she choked on her tears. "He's gone—gone, Selphie, there was nothing we could do. He's not coming back—not ever."

"That doesn't mean he's _dead_," Selphie growled, shoving Quistis away and backing away. "You don't know!" She pointed an accusing finger as the thought began to gain traction in her head and yelled, "You don't—k-know that! He could still be out there!"

"He was taken," Quistis said quickly, "by raiders. I'm sorry—I just don't harbor much hope that he's alive. They—we killed their families. They had vowed revenge."

Selphie's eyes began to sting as she fumbled for words, trying her best not to think of Zell's death. "No! NO! No, no, no! He's not—he can't be…he can't! He can't be dead!!"

"Selphie…"

"NO! You're just jealous, Quistis! You want him for you, don't think I haven't seen it! I've seen him staring at you as you go!!" her arm shook as she clenched her teeth, anger and sadness ripping her to pieces. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she stood there, her anger slowly breaking down, her mouth struggling for words. "He's—he's mine! He wouldn't leave me... he loved me, dammit! He'll be back, he's always back someday. I just have to wait long enough—want him hard enough! He'll be back!"

Without a reply, Quistis quickly shuffled out of the room, tears streaking down her cheeks. Selphie's finger pointed after her as she ran out of the dormitories, her body shaking with rage. "Zell," she said finally, "he's coming home. He _is_ coming home. He HAS to be."

* * *

Checking his dufflebag, Irvinne made a mental inventory of his supplies. The cold night breeze swiped his coat to the side, knifed effortlessly through his clothes, and smoothed across his skin. Shivering a bit, he finished up the inventory and checked it again. Flashlight, water canisters, ten MREs, an extra set of boots, ten boxes of rifle bullets, three shirts, and two sets of khaki pants. With a sigh, he zipped the bag closed and stood. On the edge of the Garden's rooftop, he stared at the moon. Distantly, he could remember the hot burn of the campfires they had set in the desert and the sand hotdogs that Zell made along the way. Glancing at his watch, he tapped his foot impatiently. 22:00. He grunted his dissatisfaction. He had called for the aircab to pick him up twenty minutes ago and Balamb wasn't exactly the hardest city to find.

Nobody would miss him and he had already OKed his leave with Cid. Shooting that kid had drowned him, he figured. Might as well get out early before rumors caught up with him--on a ship the size of Balamb Garden it wouldn't be more than four days before somebody put the pieces together and started pointing a finger in his direction. By then, he'd be long gone. Trabia was as fine a place as any to spend his time off he figured. Besides, he probably wouldn't be getting any more 'time on'.

The whine of an engine turbine got his attention and he flagged down the incoming cab. As it slowed to a halt, he grabbed the rugged leather strap on his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Taking one last look at Balamb's florescent rings, he tipped his hat and strode to the cab door, opened it, and slipped inside to the leather interior. "You know where to take me," Irvine stated with a gruff undertone, passing a thousand gil off to the driver, "no unnecessary stops. No telling anybody I used your cab. Got it?"

The driver nodded and set the car in motion without a word. As the cab lifted off from the rooftop, he heard someone calling his name. Chancing a glance at whomever had called out, he saw Squall standing on the rooftop, clad in leather pants, no shirt, and messy hair. His eyes bore into Irvinne's as the cab rocketed downwards to the sea, and in a flash, Irvinne slipped away. "Forget about the part where you need to keep your cab a secret, it's too late for that now."

Slumping back against the leather seat, Irvinne watched as the Garden slipped away from the windows. It grew smaller and smaller until it was just another dark fleck of mass on the horizon, and then it vanished entirely. As the last bit of Balamb Garden faded from sight, he let out a sigh of relief and tipped his hat down so that he could get some sleep. He was amazed he had gotten out so cleanly--he had nearly expected Squall to come riding in on the Ragnarok and harrying the cab until they gave up and let him board.

"Sorry, kid," he muttered as he slowly drifted off to sleep, "can't trust my rifle 'round there anymore."

* * *

One foot on the railing, the other firmly on the ground, Squall's hand clenched down on the railing as he watched Irvine slip away onto the horizon. "See you later, cowboy." Pushing off the rail, Squall headed back inside the Garden, consulting the tracking device he had put in Irvine's hat with a PDA. He figured that Irvine had more than forgotten about that skirmish they had had in the caves on the last mission--they had needed him to scout ahead and the only means they could keep track of each other was through the ship's tracking device and sensors--part of the reason why they knew that nobody would be coming to the rescue; when they had re-assembled the beacon before heading back to Balamb, Squall decided to tag Irvine anyway, just for fun; but the times for fun were well over it seemed.

* * *

Pushing off the wall, Seifer revealed himself. After making sure no-one was watching, he downloaded the frequency of the tracker into his PDA and smirked. "Well, we'll just have to have a nice fireside chat one day, eh chickenwuss?" Adding the entry to his student account's personal database, he left the scene and began following Squall again. All he had to do was to get him to say it, say that Irvine was the one who shot the kid. After that, he could start his old job up once again--not that they didn't need the help anyway. It was a crusade, he had decided while trying to figure out what to call his research, a crusade to vanquish the chickenwuss in all of them. All he needed were connections and then the dominoes would start stacking themselves--after that, all that needed to be done was one small little push in the right place. 

As Squall opened the door to his dormitory, he checked over his shoulder. Smirking, Seifer chuckled at the other end of the corridor. That was a close one; he'd have to be more careful if this was going to work as well as he had hoped it would. Tapping a few notes into his PDA, he smirked as he headed back to the basement. "Why not make it a documentary? I'm sure those chickenwuss worshippers up there wouldn't mind a little Seifer-brand entertainment. Besides, why spend all that energy to make my own report on the heroes when I could just record their transgressions plain vanilla." It would keep him out of the spotlight, it would make his report absolutely unbiased. It was the perfect tool--now he needed the means to make the tool. Checking his notes to compare as he got in the elevator, he sighed. "Of course. Selphie--she's broken over Zell right now. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if yours truly came along and helped her release all of that anger and hatred. Besides, with ego's like theirs, it'll only be a matter of time until they start self-destructing and taking my Garden with them."

The elevator rolled to a stop. With a ding, the doors slid open and beheld a massive amount of electronics and wires tapped into the walls. Locking the elevator again with the key he had borrowed from Cid when he wasn't looking, he stepped into his little laboratory and hooked up his PDA to his system. Placing his hands on the desk and staring at the feed watching Squall's apartment, he wondered if Balamb Garden's security system came with an audio feed. Punching in a few buttons, he placed the query. In a few seconds, the network of student accounts, administrative accounts, and server accounts he had gathered over the years came to life. Zombies, all of them, he had taken each and every one of them with a simple, undetectable program. With a few keystrokes he could command the whole network to shut down or ruin the status of five heroes.

Chuckling as he thought it, Seifer revised that sentence. He couldn't ruin their status as heroes, because there were no such people as 'heroes'. Just people who are unanimously decided upon to be represented as the peak of all perfections by their adoring public. The sickness had to come to a stop before people began regarding them as 'gods'. "Ye shall not be Gods," Seifer stated aloud as he punched in his commands, "and those who adore you will be brought to their senses; by your actions alone."

The command cleared the security systems flawlessly and the hard drives he had collected spun up as they began to record every moment of passing time in all the public areas of Balamb Garden. Letting the blue glow warm his otherwise freezing cold body, as he had opted to boost the power for the computers in expense of the heating components of the air conditioner, he began going over the elements of his first, and greatest, documentary. "The Fallacy of Heroes -- Who they Are, What they Do."


End file.
